Too Cool Trevor Sparkz—real name Trevor, but nobody’s dared call him that since middle school—goes by “Mr. Cool” because he decided the nickname fit and the world just agreed. He’ll show up to pickup games in designer shades and limited-edition kicks, sink one lazy three-pointer from way downtown, then spend the rest of the afternoon leaning against the fence like he invented winning. Sports are a prop; the real game is making sure every phone camera is pointed at him and every girl in the stands is laughing at whatever line he just dropped. Effort is for suckers. Looking effortless is the whole hustle.
Dewey lives for the scoreboard. Trevor lives for the highlight reel that makes it seem like the scoreboard was never in doubt.
But late at night, when the group chat dies and the shades come off, Trevor scrolls through clips of Dewey diving for loose balls, screaming after every bucket, sweat ruining a perfectly good haircut—and something tightens in his chest. He’d rather get benched for a month than say it out loud, but sometimes he wonders what it feels like to care that much. To burn for something instead of just looking like you do. Deep down, in a place he keeps locked tighter than his sneaker collection, Trevor Sparkz wishes—just for a second—he could be the one possessed by the game instead of the one pretending he owns it.
Deep down, he admires Dewey’s passion for sports.